


The Unmanly Desire

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [3]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Daddy Issues, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Sick Child, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleepless night guarding a sick child brought some introspection about fatherhood and masculinity. Athos POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unmanly Desire

_Everybody knows how to raise children,_ __  
_except the people who have them._  
_~ P. J. O'Rourke_

The same bed, in another room, could be as troublesome as a new bed. Grimaud tightened the ropes, fluffed the flock and placed fresh sheet, its pillows were soft and thick with new down-filler, but Athos couldn't find his place among them. Between this paradoxically uncomfortable nest, his plans for Bragelonne's improvement and the distant cries of Raoul, Athos tried his best to sleep.

Sleep always had been some dreadful, difficult experience, since Athos could remember. When was that...? Ah, Athos might be three or four years when the Count decreed that he was old enough to spend the whole night alone, and he, who was used to sleep clinging to his _nounou_ 's underskirt, was so terrified by her absence that he cried his fear and loneliness for days, until the voice which was not to be unheeded chided him for his effeminacy. Years had passed, but Athos was still ashamed by this flaw. Of course, Athos was aware that his short years were an explanation for this behavior; nonetheless, this excuse wasn't enough to redeem himself from the guilt over this misdeed against the all-mighty ideal of male bravery. As time went by the situation remain unchanged, he was an adult now with adult troubles, and sleep was still eluding him.

Raoul cried again. His weak voice in the solitary castle sent shivers through his father's spine.

Raoul was ill. The child cried in a dismayed voice, and the idea of this little one in discomfort, too sick to rest and too tired to fight, was unnerving, to say the least. Charlot's wife said maybe it was nothing, but the last time Athos had his boy in his arms, Raoul was hot and it was obvious that he felt pain when anyone touched his belly. Athos sat in the mattress, letting his bare legs hanging on the bedside. Trying to sleep was futile; he couldn't do it knowing that Raoul was in need. That worrisome fact was gnawing his insides, which of course, clashed with his own upbringing: Indulging any emotion meant to be unworthy of the title of man.

Since Athos was a little boy he knew he had an obligation to be brave, aloof, and stoic. To be a man, like his father before him, he had to be a solid monolith of honorable courage and manly detachment. Women care and worry, and he must tore that weakness from his being, for he was born to be a soldier; it was his duty to harden himself against his fears, his greed and his lust, against his feelings of defenselessness and his need to look after the people who was important to him alike.

He stayed there, unable to decide if he climbs down the bed or if he returns to his pillows. How did his father manage these situations? As far as Athos could remember, his beloved nanny was with him when he was a toddler, but when he was bereft of her presence, the servants took her place if the need arose. Athos did not know whether to curse his good health or his bad memory, but he couldn't remember his father next to his bed. The only time he remembered something of the sort was during the Battle of Ponts-de-Cé when the surgeon pressed the hot iron into a bullet wound. His father cradled him to keep him still whereas the surgeon did his work and saved his life. He was there, calling Athos' name to keep him conscious.

He had to be there for Raoul.

Athos got up and thrown over a dressing gown over his shoulders before he started groping for his breeches and shoes in the dark, he stumbled his way out of his room, annoyed because he would need some months to get used to his new surroundings. As he opened the door, he scolded himself and took note of drilling himself into a quick retreat from that room; he stepped out and tripped over an unseen obstacle.

" _Diable_!" he muttered, his arms broke the fall before he could collide face first with the parquet floor.

Still dazed, he tried to peer around him and found Grimaud settled down across the doorway, like a faithful mastiff. His valet was too exhausted, he never stirred. Almost against his will, a smile came up to Athos' lips at that sight, but his good spirit was short lived, because, as he recovered his vertical, Athos noticed that he needed to look for a suitable bed for his valet or this stubborn Breton would continue blocking his door as his old habits of military servant would die hard.

Another item for his to-do list...

Wandering through this big, rambling house by night gave Athos time to think. Each cracking on the wood annoyed him. The walls showed their cracks quite openly. He had to be careful around the stairs, they are not safe. He was met with a myriad of small reparations that demanded his attention. A man should take charge of this kind of things! By the time he reached the first floor, Athos realized that those are the works in his sphere of competence. He was not meant to take care of a child. It was not pride which prevented him from cradling Raoul in his ailments; it was the way the world was: Men take charge of the life's practical issues!

Athos was about to retrace his steps to his chamber, in his mind he was convinced that that was the right thing to do, but Raoul cried again. His lips thinned to a bloodless line. That innocent, helpless and weak voice tugged his heart with the imperious force of God's commands; his hand clutched the highly ornate newel and his head rested on the finial. Athos keep his eyes closed while he tried to shut away his weakness.

He scorned himself for having grew fond of the boy too soon, but he had to check him, it was the only sensible thing to do. He was in his home. He was his responsibility. Athos couldn't do least for a guest and this was _his son_. That didn't stop his ears from catching the lost echo of his own father's disappointed grunt.

That man had been dead for ten years and his power still towered over Athos' spirit; the constant question his son had was when he would get over it.

With a sigh, he walked towards the kitchen; Charlot's wife's voice, faint with tiredness, was singing a lullaby striving to console the boy, Raoul's cries demonstrated that he was not impressed with her efforts. A quick glance was enough to show Athos that he was not the only one distraught: Charlot was sprawled over a straw truss, with his arm over his eyes, was the living picture of a honest man trying to get some rest amidst the noise; his wife was rocking the baby, seated in a stool by the cold heart, her slumped figure hawked her exhaustion. Raoul, stripped to his diapers, bawled his pain, his face reddened by the fever.

"Is he any better?" Athos asked, stepping into the kitchen.

The good woman was too tired to be surprised by his presence. "He puked out no more, but he can't sleep and is all fussy..."

Athos opened his mouth, but the words that were poured out of it shocked him, "Give him to me, you need your rest."

Still amazed, but in need of sleep, the woman handed him the baby. Athos settled the boy against his shoulder, his hand on the diaper. Raoul was heavy, more than he usually was.

"Here is some chamomile," she said, placing Raoul's cup on his hand, "it's good for his belly, but he don't want to drink it."

"We'll see," was his reply, Raoul was kicking his side as if he tried to climb to his shoulder. "Sleep while you can, I can manage."

Famous last words...

...

Later that night, Athos found himself next to the well, without his dressing gown and seated on a puddle, with a nude, wet Raoul on his thighs. His boy's constant 'whaa whaa' was driving him crazy, but the well's tepid water seemed to calm him down. For a good quarter of hour Athos was trying to conjugate the Spanish verb ' _escarmentar_ ' while he poured water over Raoul's belly, it was the only thing that kept him right-minded. Raoul pouted and complained but finally he changed his blaring cries to a more subdued set of moans.

"You know, Raoul?" Athos mumbled, pouring a little more water over the baby, "your grandfather must be rolling over in his grave, if he can see us."

"Whaa?" Raoul cried again, but he placed his fist on his mouth. That was a good sign.

"Thirsty?" he asked presenting the cup. Maybe he was deceiving himself, but his only chance of sanity was trying to reason with the boy.

Raoul moaned again and extended his arm. Not bad for a five month boy. Athos smiled and placed the baby in the crook of his arm and let him drink. While Raoul quenched his thirst, Athos wondered if his own father ever feed him, like he was doing now with Raoul. His finger caressed the high-relief of the cup; there was the simple or field escutcheon with his three chequy silver and sable bands. Athos was sure it was his. His nanny said she received it from _Madame la comtesse_ before placing it on his young hands, the day they parted ways. Somehow it survived his gift-giving spree to Anna; he could have it melted to make her a collar or some frivolousness of the sort. It survived, among his things in La Fère, and he was happy for that.

Raoul spat the cup and fussed in his lap. Maybe he had enough. Athos placed the boy against his shoulder, who sighed and nuzzled his neck; his weight was lighter and his skin was cooler now. Athos drank his pure aroma, so young, so unsullied. There were no words to explain how happy he was for having this bastard child in his arms; and he had no way to express it without failing his breeding. Enough to say that the remorse for his weakness in front of his lust was well worth if the world had a Raoul in it.

"And to think you will never call me father..."

Athos would pay gladly anything if he could proclaim Raoul as his son, but his self-deceiving abilities were limited. His family was pretty clear: Bragelonne was reparation over La Fère, which was his just in name. Such compensation was earned because he caused not further shame to the House of Montmorency. They were not going to take well the fact he had a bastard now, less than a year away from receiving his reward. His only opportunity of keep Raoul in his life was to deny him, as Peter denied Our Lord.

"We better get inside," Athos said, noticing how icy his butt was.

"Puah," Raoul blurted out, his mouth was chewing Athos' collar.

"Glad you concur..."

...

A dish. A silver tankard. A big, scarred hand. A stern face, full of quiet gravity. A voice which matched perfectly with this impassive face and absent, cold eyes.

"I have been informed you asked for me in your last ailment."

How cruel comment! But how deferentially delivered... He was not talking to a child, but to a noble man.

"I did," Olivier admitted; his own plate rest untouched, his throat choked with a lump formed by the unmanly desire of being loved and pampered when ill. "Please, forgive my weakness..."

...

Was he dreaming? He was not sure. His eyes wandered between the ceiling joists of an unknown hall. He was in Bragelonne, and that was good, even when that that sight reminded him that this house need a good refurbishing. He was not in La Fère; he was not an eight years old who wished to have been born a peasant. He was still his father's son, but God had spared his life to this date and he will let him be the kind of parent he wanted he had.

Raoul kicked in his sleep and missed Athos' crotch by an inch. Any other living being would be in trouble, but his father smiled, placed his hand on that diapered ass and kissed that sweaty brow. The boy still warm, but he was not the small ember Athos received some hours ago. Athos settled his head in the hard throw pillow and fitted his wet ass in the seat of that big divan until he found a comfortable spot. That short nap was more restful than the time spent on his own bed.

"Bah," Raoul called out, lifting his head and watched him as if he was offended by the hustle.

"Precisely," Athos said and tossed his dressing gown over themselves.

"A... pooh..." the boy commented and let his head fall down.

Athos smiled again. The last two months Raoul had given him more reasons to do it than his whole life in Paris. Somehow he had to find a way to be his father, not only legally, but to give him all the things he lacked in his young age...

"God forbid me to speak ill of my own father, Raoul," he murmured, his lips next to that curly hair, "but I vow you shall never be in want of a caress..."

Raoul in all likelihood didn't understood that solemn oath, but his hand got hold on Athos' neck and for a moment, that simple movement felt like a hug.


End file.
